


Broken

by becauseitwasreal



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Seriously this is so angsty why did I even write this, Slight Murphamy I guess, Warning for references to torture and blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 22:24:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6725872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/becauseitwasreal/pseuds/becauseitwasreal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You all right?” <br/>“Never better.”<br/>He didn’t know how to fix this. How do you fix someone so broken? </p><p>In which Murphy is basically having a shit time, but learns he may not be alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken

Sleep didn’t come to Murphy as easily as it had before. He was back at the camp, to stay, it seemed – as long as Clarke decided he was tolerated enough not to skin alive, useful enough to keep around. He wondered how long that would be. How long before he would manage to screw something up and be left alone once again. He’d done it on the Ark, he done it on Earth. One way or another, he always led himself into misery. For now, however, he was relatively _safe_ , which was a first. He had been relieved at first. No more pain, no longer thrust into the bloodstained dirt with open knees and a torn face. But safety came with the price. No one trusted him, and it seemed to have gotten worse after the ordeal with Finn. _It wasn’t your fault, it wasn’t your fault,_ he kept telling himself. Over and over and over again until he almost started to believe it. They didn’t give him anything to do – no guard duty, no hunting trips, absolutely nothing. So he just sat around all day, staring into the sun and whatnot. He rested, and he healed. He could sleep the first few days. Exhausted enough, his mind had shut down and allowed him his peace of a couple of hours. Now his wounds had closed and the worst was over, closing his eyes wasn’t as easy anymore. In the darkness of his mind he became aware of every small sound outside his tent, every whisper of the air around him. And when – _if_ – he finally did fall asleep, it was never peaceful anymore. He managed to produce vivid imagines. Blood on the wall, blood on the ground, blood everywhere. A rope around his neck, shutting him down like a ragdoll. Shutting him down as if he didn’t deserve the air in his lungs. Shutting him down like he was a criminal. _Who are you kidding_ , his mother’s voice told him. _Like you’ll ever be anything else_.

***

Bellamy woke up in the middle of the night. _Just a dream_ , he lied to himself. He had almost died that day on the cliff, and he would have if it wasn’t for Murphy, and yet in his mind, everything was twisted and confused. The rope had not been around his middle, but had tightened around his neck, suffocating him. Not a dream. He rolled out of bed and out of his tent, allowing the fresh air of the night to relieve his lungs and light his eyes. He cursed himself – he had to be stronger than this. Murphy had been right in that moment. He was a coward, every time it came to it. He missed Clarke’s guts to be focused on their people every single second of the day. He could still feel the strain around his neck, and almost felt sorry for himself. He had no time for that. And besides, he wasn’t the only one with that memory. Slowly feeling the last breath of air leave your body, drowning into the black edges of your conscious, nothing, _nothing_ you can do to make it stop. He’d like to think that they were even. 1-1. Murphy had tried to kill him, and he had saved him. Not to mention that the saving part had actually been successful. They were good, right? He sighed at his  second lie. He had nothing to show for.

***

The morning came slowly, the sun fighting its way through the branches of the forest, the camp waking up with it. Murphy waited on purpose. If he’d be the first out there, he knew people would notice the red spots in his neck and the stains on his cheeks. He just had a faced like that. _A blessing_ , his father had said once. _I want to know when you’re hurting, so I can make it better._ And he had tried. He had tried until it had killed him. _A curse_ , his mother had started to call it. _Take your pathetic misery somewhere I don’t have to see it_. Pathetic misery, that was exactly what it was. So he waited. He waited until he was certain about half of the camp would be having breakfast, so no one would find him slipping away to clean his face, and to try to wash the bloodstains off his hands. He had seen Connor in his dreams that night. It hadn’t happened before. _You don’t know what regret feels like. You’re a killer, John Murphy. A killer_.

He noticed with regret that he wasn’t the only one who had decided to skip breakfast in favour of the water basin. His night hadn’t been spectacular, and if he could judge from the way that boy was furiously trying to scrub the skin of his hands, his hadn’t either. “Easy there, kid. What did your hands do to you?” he joked. He was met with the cold stare he’d gotten to know so well. “Murphy?”

“Piss off, Blake,” the boy hissed. There were bags under his eyes which undoubtedly reflected Bellamy’s own lack of sleep.

Bellamy’s smile faltered, unable to stop a wave of concern washing over him. “Your bed-hair looks ridiculous,” he said. The neat, slick brown hair that he remembered from the first day was now sticking up, like someone had used it as a mob and then just put it back on Murphy’s head again. He hadn’t even recognised him.

“I’m sorry beauty doesn’t come naturally to all of us.” He didn’t expect to hear so much venom in Murphy’s voice. They had joked before, hadn’t they?

 _Before_.

“What are you still doing here?” Murphy said, his voice not quite composed. “You can see I’m busy here, right? Come back later.”

Bellamy’s eyes rested on Murphy’s, and then on the rest of his face. His face was reddish and he looked as if he had been crying, his shirt was crumpled and if Bellamy didn’t know any better, he’d say that the boy was shaking.

“Yeah, very busy,” Bellamy said. “But I think your hands are clean now, and I need a wash too.”

“They aren’t,” Murphy said, his voice soft but harsh.

Bellamy felt a sinking feeling set into his stomach, painfully aware of the meaning caught behind those words. “Murphy…”

“Fine. Whatever you say, _boss_.” Cold like fire. The boy splashed some water into his face and turned to rush away, but Bellamy grabbed his arm. “Get off me, you –”

“Mine aren’t either, Murphy,” Bellamy said, and he let go of Murphy. The boy stood as if paralysed, his face knitted into a frown. “Whose are?” 

Murphy shrugged. “Everyone’s but mine, I guess. Clarke –”

“Isn’t a saint either, and whatever she may think, isn’t always _right_.”

The boy laughed, a smile forming on his face, but no joy to be found in the blue of his eyes. “What point are you even trying to make? I killed two people. I hanged you. I’m the _bad guy_ , remember?”

Bellamy mustered up his courage to speak the words he should have spoken long ago, and to take back the ones he should never have said. “I hanged you. I never apologised for it, and I never did anything to make things right. You saved my life, Murphy. That counts for a lot with me.”

“Right,” Murphy said bitterly. “I thought I was just the asshole who spilled all our people’s secrets to the Grounders, but apparently none of that matters anymore because I managed to not be a dick for once. Because I managed to get _one_ thing right? I never apologised either. I _made_ you apologise, and  I’m not even sure I’m sorry.”

“I am,” Bellamy said. “I’m sorry. For the hanging, and for what I said to you. I know you didn’t want to hear that from me back then, but I meant it. I have regretted it over and over again and wished I could make things right, but I can’t turn back time. And neither can you. I’m not saying you’re a good person, but who of us is, really? We make mistakes, but we get back up again. You can get back up again, Murphy.”

Murphy pushed him out of the way. “It’s too early for one of your motivational speeches, Blake, please just leave me alone.”

Bellamy sighed. On whatever level they were before, they were now back to 0-0.

***

He couldn’t stop. The tears kept coming and with every new drop that tainted his cheek he thought about the words that Bellamy had said that morning. As if there was any forgiveness for him in this camp. Just because Blake hated him less than before because he owed him his life – a life he had tried to take – didn’t mean anyone else would even faintly warm to him. His mother knew that. that night, he had found himself back on the Ark. Murphy could still feel the bottle breaking against his head, a loud crashing and cursing from the woman who called herself his mother. _You killed your father_ – and it hadn’t really stopped there, did it? Oh, how much joy it would have given her to look upon him now. Maybe she was out there, somewhere, laughing at him from between the stars.

He needed air. He opened the flap of his tent. A drink, he needed a drink. Water.

“Wow, watch out where you’re – Murphy?”

 _Shit, shit, shit – not again. Hadn’t he embarrassed himself enough this morning?_ “Blake.” He kept his voice cold as he stared down, focusing on the dirt under his toenails instead of on the guy he had so gracelessly bumped into.

“You all right?”

“Never better, if you could just…”

To his surprise, Bellamy stepped out of the way, and he made his way to the water basin once again, trying to banish all the thoughts of that morning out of his head. He splashed to cold water in his face first this time – he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice – and then focused on his hands again. _You killed your father. You killed your father._ If there were a mirror, he would have broken it. He had never been lucky anyway. _You killed your father_. He hardly noticed his own tears and his blurred vision, it was just him and the voice. He never knew how someone could manage to pour so much spite into a single sentence, but Murphy knew very well he himself had spoken like that before. He knew how much like his mother he was that night had browned an entire bottle of Moonshine just because he _could_. “I know, mom,” he whispered softly to the wall where his reflection would normally be. “I killed him. I killed my own father. I killed. I killed.” His gasped for breath as he tried to control his shaking body. He was strong than this. He was a survivor. Why was this breaking him? Why did he always break? It was his weak and fragile body that had killed his father. “I killed my father,” he said again, somewhat louder this time, “I – I killed my father.” He couldn’t breathe. The tears kept coming and he just couldn’t _stop_. “I – I – father… please…” He felt the rope tightening around his neck once more. “Please don’t – I – I know – I killed my father.”

His breathing hitched as he felt two strong arms around him, pushing him straight up from the floor. He didn’t realise he – “I killed –”

“Shut up, Murphy.” Two brown eyes were looking at him as he gasped for breath, tears on his cheeks and in his eyes, the face before him only vague, but the voice familiar.

“B-blake.” His voice was shaking. “G-go aw-way.” _Weak, weak, weak._

“No.” The voice was stern, but not as harsh as he had heard it before. Not as harsh as the voices in his own head.

“I – I killed my father – I don’t –”

Hands on his face. No, he couldn’t have that. He batted them away and pushed himself against the wall, wheezing at the contact his back made with the cold stone. That one wasn’t healed properly yet.

***

Bellamy didn’t know what to do. He had been unable to fall asleep and had just gone to get a drink when he had found Murphy on the floor. He realised that while that morning he had _known_ , he had never actually seen him cry before. The boy was obviously panicking and he simply didn’t have any experience with this. “Hey, Murphy…” No response, just hitched breathing and more tears. He had always wondered what Murphy had done to end up in the Skybox, but shit, he hadn’t expected this.

“Murphy, I don’t know what happened with your dad, but I’m sure –”

“Y-you don’t know s-shit.”

“Explain it to me, then.” He crouched closer to the boy, careful not to get too close.

Murphy shook his head. “Can’t.”

“Okay,” Bellamy said calmly. “Then I’ll just ask some questions. You can just shake or nod, all right?” This was ridiculous. Murphy didn’t trust him, and just didn’t want to tell him. _I just want to help,_ he told himself. Another voice inside him snickered. _Like he wants your help_.

Bellamy bit his lip. “Did you mean to kill him?”

No response.

“Murphy? Was it on purpose?”

A furious shake of the head. “H-he shouldn’t h-have –”

“Shh, it’s okay. Did he hurt you?” The though made his stomach twist.

“No, never – y-you don’t –” His eyes were furious, and suddenly a realisation hit Bellamy. Murphy’s dad got floated.

“He got floated, right?”

A nod.

“And you – you think it was because of you?”

“I – I don’t t-think, Blake. I-it was.” His breathing became more irregular, and the boy seemed to push himself further away from him.

He didn’t know how to fix this. How do you fix someone so broken?

“What happened?” Bellamy asked, careful to keep his eyes fixed on Murphy. If he could just hold his gaze long enough...

“He s-stole. I-I was s-sick and he thought – not that the m-medicine w-worked, b-but –” Murphy clutched his arms around his stomach, as if he was going to be sick. “I killed him, I killed him, I –”

***

His words were caught off by Bellamy’s strong arms around him, again.

“It wasn’t your fault, Murphy.” The words were soft and sweet, but they were lies. They were all lies. And yet they were the sweetest lies he had ever heard. He wanted to struggle against the older boy’s hold, but he was so tired. Tired of fighting, tired of breathing, tired of the tears. He tried to steady his breathing as Bellamy’s hands rubbed circles into his back. He was talking, but he couldn’t hear the words. They sounded nice though, so he let a cloud wash over him as he closed his eyes and buried his face into Bellamy’s shirt. He didn’t know how long it took before his breathing evened and the tears on his cheeks tried, only leaving a wet spot on Bellamy’s T-shirt. Bellamy was still holding him, stroking his hair now, as if he was a child to be soothed. Perhaps he was.

He pushed himself upright, away from his comfort and painfully aware of what a fool he made of himself. “‘Msorry,” he whispered, as pushed himself away from Bellamy. The other boy didn’t say anything. He just looked at him with those eyes… “Just say it, Blake. I know. I’m weak and _pathetic_ and it’s no wonder I hardly lasted three days with the Grounders –”

“Don’t,” Bellamy simply said. “Your dad… That wasn’t your fault. I should never have –” He seemed to struggle for words. “I know you don’t care for my words. I know that whatever I say you’ll just sneer because they won’t _help_. I can’t change what happened.”

“Then why are you here?” Murphy bit back. He wanted Bellamy’s words, even if he didn’t believe them. He wanted his comfort. He _needed_ someone.

“Because I _want_ to help. I don’t know how to but, I want to try. I just don’t want you to think you have to do this all alone. I want to tell you you’re not weak or pathetic, but I know you don’t believe it. So I’ll tell you this. We all have our demons. Do you think I never wake up crying in the middle of the night? Because I do. I’m weak and pathetic too. But do you know what always helps me? The thought that I’m not alone. I have friends, and…”

“I don’t. I know.” Murphy put his chin on his knees and hugged them close to him. “I know.”

“Wrong,” Bellamy said, placing a warm hand on his shoulder. “You have me.” Murphy smiled, not even caring to comment on Blake’s self-righteousness or his hero-complex. He smiled, and hoped that maybe, just _maybe_ , this would be enough.


End file.
